artis severae si quis ambit effectus mentemque magnis applicat, prius mores frugalitatis lege poliat exacta. nec curet alto regiam trucem vultu cliensve cenas impotentium captet nec perditis addictus obruat vino mentis calorem, neve plausor in scaenam sedeat redemptus histrionis ad rictus. sed sive armigerae rident Tritonidis arces, seu Lacedaemonio tellus habitata colono Sirenumve domus, det primos versibus annos Maeoniumque bibat felici pectore fontem. mox et Socratico plenus grege mittat habenas liber et ingentis quatiat Demosthenis arma. hinc Romana manus circumfluat et modo Graio exonerata sono mutet suffusa saporem. interdum subducta foro det pagina cursum et cortina[314] sonet celeri distincta meatu; dein[315] epulas et bella truci memorata canore grandiaque indomiti Ciceronis verba minetur. his animum succinge bonis: sic flumine largo plenus Pierio defundes pectore verba.
If any man court success in the lofty art of letters and apply his mind to great things, he must first perfect his character by simplicity's stern law; he must care naught for the haughty frown of the fierce tyrant that lords it in his palace, nor seek client-like for invitations to the board of the profligate, nor deliver himself over to the company of debauchees and drown the fire of his understanding in wine, nor sit in the theatre the hired applauder of the mouthing actor. But whether the citadel of panoplied Minerva allure him with its smile, or the land where the Spartan exile came to dwell, or the Sirens' home, let him devote his early years to poesy, and let his spirit drink in with happy omen a draught from the Maeonian fount. Thereafter, when his soul is full of the lore of the Socratic school, let him give himself free rein and brandish the weapons of great Demosthenes. Next let the band of Roman authors throng him round, and, but newly freed from the music of Greece, suffuse his soul and change its tone. Meanwhile, let his pen run its course withdrawn from the forum, and let Apollo's tripod send forth a voice rhythmic and swift: next let him roll forth in lordly speech the tale of heroes' feasting and wars, set forth in fierce strain and lofty language, such as fell from the lips of dauntless Cicero. Prepare thy soul for joys such as these; and, steeped in the plenteous stream of letters, thou shalt give utterance to the thoughts of thy Pierian soul.
This is not inspired poetry; but its advice is sound, and its point of view just. Nor is this criticism a mere jeu d'esprit; it is hard to resist the conclusion that the author is putting his own views into the mouths of his more than shady characters. For, mutatis mutandis, the same attitude towards literary art is revealed in the utterances of the poet Eumolpus.[316] It is a curious fact that while none of the characters in Petronius are to be taken seriously, their speech at times soars from the reeking atmosphere of the brothel and the clamour of the streets to clearer and loftier regions of thought, if not of action. The first appearance of Eumolpus is conceived in a broadly comic vein. 'While I was thus engaged a grey-haired old man entered the picture gallery. He had a troubled countenance, which seemed to promise some momentous utterance. His dress was lamentable, and showed that he was clearly one of those literary gentlemen so unpopular with the rich. He took his stand by my side. "I am a poet," he said, "and no mean one, if any trust is to be placed in wreaths of honour, which are so often bestowed even on those who least deserve them." "Why, then, are you so ill-clad?" I asked. "Just for that very reason. Devotion to art never brought any one wealth"—
qui pelago credit magno se faenore tollit; qui pugnas et castra petit, praecingitur auro; vilis adulator picto iacet ebrius ostro, et qui sollicitat nuptas, ad praemia peccat: sola pruinosis horret facundia pannis atque inopi lingua desertas invocat artes.[317]
He who entrusts his fortunes to the sea, wins a mighty harvest; he who seeks the camp and the field of war, may gird him with gold: the vile flatterer lies drunken on embroidered purple; the gallant who courts the favours of wedded wives, wins wealth by his sin: eloquence alone shivers in frosty rags and invokes the neglected arts with pauper tongue.
'There's no doubt as to the truth of it. If a man has a detestation of vice and chooses the paths of virtue, he is hated on the ground that his morals are eccentric. No one approves of ways of life other than his own. Then there are those whose sole care is the acquisition of wealth; they are unwilling that anything should be thought to be a superior good to that which they themselves possess. And so they persecute lovers of literature with all their might.' This vitiorum omnium inimicus then proceeds to tell a story which casts a startling light upon his 'eccentric morality'. Its undoubted humour can hardly be said to redeem its amazing grossness. He has scarcely finished the narration of his own shame when he is back again in another world—the world of letters. He laments the decay of art and philosophy. 'The passion for money-making has brought ruin in its train. While virtue went bare and was a welcome guest, the noble arts flourished, and men vied with one another in the effort to discover anything that might be of service to mankind.' He quotes the examples of Democritus, Eudoxus, Chrysippus in the world of science, of Myron in art. 'We have given ourselves up to wine and women, and take no pains to become acquainted even with the arts already discovered. We traduce antiquity by teaching and learning its vices only. Where is dialectic? Where is astronomy? Where is philosophy?' He sees that Encolpius is not listening, but is absorbed in the contemplation of a picture representing the sack of Troy, and seizes the opportunity of reciting a poem of his own upon the subject. The lines are for the most part neither original nor striking; they form a kind of abstract in iambics of the second Aeneid, from the appearance of Sinon to the emergence of the Greeks from the Trojan horse. But the work is finished and elegant,[318] and the simile which describes the arrival of the serpents that were to slay Laocoon is not unworthy of a more successful poet than Eumolpus is represented to have been:
ecce alia monstra; celsa qua Tenedos mare dorso replevit, tumida consurgunt freta undaque resultat scissa tranquillo minans[319] qualis silenti nocte remorum sonus longe refertur, cum premunt classes mare pulsumque marmor abiete imposita gemit. respicimus; angues orbibus geminis ferunt ad saxa fluctus, tumida quorum pectora rates ut altae lateribus spumas agunt.
Lo! a fresh portent; where the ridge of lofty Tenedos filled the sea, there breaks a swelling surge, and the broken waves rebound and threaten the calm: as when in the silent night the sound of oars is borne afar, when navies burden the main and the smitten deep groans beneath its freight of pine. We looked round: the waves bear towards the rocks two coiling snakes, whose swelling breasts, like tall ships, drive the water in foam along their sides.
The picture is at once vivid and beautiful, and we feel almost regretful at the fate which his recitation brought on the unhappy poet. 'Those who were walking in the colonnade began to throw stones at Eumolpus as he recited. He recognized this method of applauding his wit, covered his head with his cloak and fled from the temple. I was afraid that he would denounce me as a poet. And so I followed him till I came to the sea-shore and was out of range. "What do you mean," I said, "by inflicting this disease of yours upon us? You have been less than two hours in my company, and you have more often spoken like a poet than a man. I'm not surprised that people throw stones at you. I'm going to fill my own pockets with stones, and the moment you begin to unburden yourself, I'm going to break your head." His face revealed a painful emotion. "My good youth," said he, "to-day is not the first occasion on which I have suffered this fate. Nay, I have never entered a theatre to recite, without attracting this kind of welcome. But as I don't want to quarrel with you, I will abstain from my daily food for the whole day."' Eumolpus did not keep this promise; but the poem with which he broke it is of small importance and need not detain us.[320] It is a little disquisition on the refinements of luxury now prevalent, and has but one notable line—the last—
quidquid quaeritur optimum videtur.